Ralph Compton Ride the Hard Trail

by Ralph Compton

  A racket outside caused Lin to turn. But the person who flew toward him wore a dress. She came to a stop, her chest heaving with emotion.

  “You were supposed to keep going,” Lin said.

  “And leave you?”

  Then Etta June was in his arms, and for as long as he lived, Lin would never forget that moment. They looked down at the man who had tried his utmost to destroy them.

  “You picked him over me,” Seth Montfort said in disbelief. “You pretend to be a lady, but you are a whore.”

  “Just die, will you?” Etta June said.

  Montfort opened his mouth to reply, but all that came out was a strangled whine and a last exhale. His portly body sagged.

  “Good riddance.”

  Lin guided Etta June out onto the porch. “Where are the children?”

  “Safe out back.”

  They stood arm in arm and surveyed the slaughter.

  “You are safe too,” Lin said. He added with a tired smile, “Even your stable is still standing.”

  Etta June gave a start. “Yes, it is, isn’t it? We will have to do something about that.”

  Epilogue

  The rider was caked with dust. He had gray at the temples, and a smattering of gray marked the stubble on his chin. Pinned to his shirt was a battered badge. In his holster nestled a Colt with well-worn grips. He reined up near the house and shifted in the saddle to regard the charred beams and blackened pile that had once been the stable.

  Etta June came out, her arms folded. She was wearing her apron. “How do you do,” she greeted him.

  The lawman doffed his dusty hat and smiled a weary smile. “You are Mrs. Cather, I take it?”

  “That I am. And you are the marshal who showed up in Mason a few days ago.”

  “Word gets around fast. Yes, I am Marshal Conklin. Did you also happen to hear why I am here?”

  “You are after a couple of killers,” Etta June said.

  “Lin and Chancy Bryce. I have seen Chancy’s grave, and know he died swapping lead with man killers sent by a certain gent in Cheyenne.”

  “Then you must be here about Lin.”

  Marshal Conklin nodded. “I have been told that you hired them, and that he was involved in this Montfort business.” The lawman motioned at what was left of the stable. “Is that where it happened?”

  “Yes, that is where Lin died,” Etta June said sadly. “I don’t know what he did that you are after him, but Lin Bryce gave his life saving mine and the lives of my children. I will always think fondly of him.”

  “I knew his father,” Marshal Conklin revealed. “A good man.”

  “There was not much left of Lin,” Etta June said. “I can show you where I buried the little there was, if you want.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Marshal Conklin, staring at the blackened ruin, gave a slight shudder. “Burned alive. I would not mind any way but that.”

  “Can I interest you in coffee or food?”

  “No, thank you, ma’am.” Conklin raised his reins. “I just had to see it with my own eyes for my report. I will leave you to your chores.” He smiled and touched his hat brim.

  Etta June watched until the lawman was a speck in the distance. Then she went inside and down the hall to the kitchen table. Lin was filling three cups with coffee, and looked up.

  “Did it work?”

  “He believes you are dead.”

  “I am grateful. But I still don’t think we should have burned down the stable.”

  “Our story had to be convincing,” Etta June said, and grinned. “It is a small price to pay for a new husband.”

  Crutches clomped, and Chancy came over from the stove balancing a plate of eggs in the same hand as his right crutch. He was pale and thin and his hair was down to his shoulders. “A husband and a brother-in-law. Or don’t I count?”

  “Of course you do,” Etta June said.

  Lin set down the coffeepot. “You are lucky it was Abe Tucker who found you and that he kept quiet about you being alive.”

  “We have been lucky all around,” Etta June said.

  Chancy’s features clouded. “Except for Pat and Sue.”

  Lin did not like being reminded. “Enough gloom.” He raised his cup. “How about a toast?”

  Etta June and Chancy imitated him.

  “To the future!”

  “To the future!”

  Lin Bryce smiled.

  Turn the page for a special preview

  of the next exciting Ralph Compton novel,

  BLOOD ON THE GALLOWS

  Coming from Signet in August 2008

  Big John McBride felt mighty small, dwarfed b the towering landscape around him.

  A mile to his north reared the pine-covered peaks of the Capitan Mountains, their slopes streaked with winter snow that had hardened into ice and lingered into spring. Ahead of him, almost hidden behind a curtain of rain, Tucson Mountain was a hulking dark shape against ramparts of clouds the color of old pewter.

  It seemed to McBride that the entire country had stood itself on end, soaring into the sky like petrified organ music. The stunning majesty of God’s creation has the ability to humble a man, and right about then John McBride could have written the book on humility.

  He was hopelessly lost in a wilderness that offered him nothing. He had missed his last six meals and was gloomily looking forward to soon adding to that number by one. He rode a mouse-colored, eight-hundred-pound mustang with a choppy gait that chafed even his tough hide, and the teeming rain had found its way inside his canvas slicker, adding to his misery.

  Hours earlier, around noon, he guessed, he’d seen a bull elk walk out of the aspen line of a mountain slope, then stand close to an outcrop of sandstone rock, its nose raised as it tested the wind.

  McBride had considered shooting the elk for meat. But he’d soon dismissed the idea. He was no great shakes with a rifle and the elk had been at least a hundred yards away and uphill at that. As is common among men who ride lonely trails, he’d spoken his thoughts aloud.

  “And if you do kill that beast, what are you going to do with it then, John?” he’d asked himself.

  City born and city bred, he’d had no answer. He’d never skinned an animal in his life and he was sure if he tried he’d make a real mess of it. Even if, by some miracle, he’d succeeded in hacking out a steak, he’d need a fire to cook it. And making a fire in the rain was way beyond his ability. In fact, he’d ruefully told himself, making a fire in dry weather was usually way beyond his ability.

  Dismally, he’d watched the elk walk back into the aspen, its tail flicking a derisive farewell.

  Now, still hungry, McBride drew rein on the mustang and pondered his options, which were few. Around him the land lay quiet but for the hiss of the rain. Left to itself, nature loves silence. The trees, the flowers, the grass grow in silence and the sun, moon and stars make their revolutions in a deep hush. Only man visits the quiet places to kick up a din, but that day John McBride was not one of them.

  He had ridden closer to Tucson Mountain and he rubbed rain from his eyes with the back of his hand and studied its slope. A faint switchback trail climbed gradually through a piñon and juniper forest, then disappeared among pure stands of ponderosa. But where did it lead?

  McBride hoped for a town, but he was willing to bet that after the trail climbed the peak and dropped to the other side he’d see only more tall mountains and deep, impassible canyons.

  His mind made up, he kicked his pony into motion and skirted the mountain, riding northeast through a narrow, grassy valley studded with mesquite and thick stands of prickly pear.

  The sky was turning darker and the light was fleeing as McBride splashed across a fast-running creek and then rode into rugged hill country, cut through by ridges of bald sandstone rock. Rain drummed on his plug hat, driven by a rising wind, and the bleak landscape around him promised little. Very soon he would have to make a cold camp somewhere out of the wind and rain—if such a place could
be found.

  McBride rode up on a wide draw running with six inches of water. Come summer the draw would dry up and fill with dust, but now it was just another river to cross. He urged the mustang down a sandy bank that he guessed had been broken down years ago by buffalo or more recently by cattle, and then climbed the opposite side. The mustang had faltered as it splashed through the water and now its ugly hammer head hung low, its steps slow and plodding. The little horse was all used up, just as its rider was, and McBride knew the time had come to stop and let the animal rest.

  He climbed out of the saddle, ungainly and awkward, a man unused to riding, and gathered up the reins. He looked around him but nowhere could he see a place to shelter. The rain was heavier now, relentlessly lashing at him, and the angry sky began to flash with lightning. Ahead of McBride the land rose gradually for a mile or so, then climbed abruptly toward a ridge backboned with upthrust slabs of rock, a few stunted junipers and piñon growing here and there among them.

  McBride blinked against the rain and studied the ridge. There could be shelter among the massive shelves of rock for both man and horse, he decided. Shelter but no food, his grumbling stomach reminded him, its patience worn thin.

  Thunder was banging in the distance as McBride led the mustang toward the ridge. It was almost full dark, and like a demented artist, lightning painted the landscape with wild splashes of electric blue. The air smelled of wet grass and ozone and McBride was increasingly aware of the storm’s danger. He was a tall man on rising ground. The highest thing around. He quickened his pace and the mustang, sensing the man’s urgency, willingly followed.

  The slope of the ridge rose gradually, but it was slippery with mud and the few scattered clumps of bunchgrass did nothing to make the going easier. McBride slid and skidded his way toward the rocky crest, his elastic-sided boots gouging long smears in the yellow mud. The mustang, mountain bred and surefooted, made the climb effortlessly, the growing number of lightning flashes flaring in its black eyes.

  McBride reached the first of the rock slabs and sharp disappointment stabbed at him. From what he could see, nowhere was there a place to shelter. The tumbled shelves of sandstone crowded close together and near to the ground. He led the mustang through a gap in the rocks, passed a stunted, twisted cedar that grabbed at him as though seeking companionship, then gained the crest of the ridge.

  The big man rubbed rain from his eyes, scarcely able to believe what he was seeing. About a half mile from the bottom of the grade lay a town, its windows rectangles of dim orange light behind the steel mesh of the driving rain.

  McBride smiled. A town meant food and shelter and he was badly in need of both.

  He started down the slope, sliding on his rump most of the way, then climbed into the saddle when he reached the flat. A wide creek lined with cottonwoods and a few willows made a sharp bend ahead of him and then curved around the back of the town’s outlying buildings. Farther to his left an arched bridge of rough-cut timber crossed the creek, leading to a rutted, well-used wagon road.

  McBride swung the mustang toward the bridge, a route that took him near the bend of the creek. The little horse shied away from the thick stand of cottonwoods lining the bank and tossed its head, the bit jangling. It was now almost fully dark, but as lightning flashed, accompanied by a bellow of thunder, McBride saw exceptionally tall men standing among the trees. He drew rein, his eyes battling the gloom as he scanned the cottonwoods.

  Suddenly he was uneasy. Something was wrong. Even the rugged western lands didn’t breed men that who stood that high. McBride’s years as a sergeant in the New York Police Department’s bureau of detectives had given him an instinct for danger and he felt it now, reaching out to him.

  And so did the mustang. The little horse was up on its toes, its head raised as it battled the bit, arcs of white showing in its eyes. It danced back from the trees, disliking what the wind was telling it, and McBride, a poor horseman, fought to stay in the saddle.

  Thunder roared and lightning flared all the way to the top of the clouds, a shimmering, searing white light that fell on the men among the trees. They stirred, moving only slightly, seemingly unconcerned by the perils of the storm.

  Another trait of the good detective is curiosity and McBride reluctantly gave in to his. He urged the mustang toward the cottonwoods, but the horse refused to move; then it swung around and trotted in the direction of the ridge. Irritated, rain pelting around him, McBride yanked on the reins and the horse stood long enough for him to clamber out of the saddle. As soon as his feet touched the ground, the mustang tossed its head and cantered into the darkness.

  Annoyed beyond measure, McBride looked around for a rock, couldn’t find one and had to content himself with shaking a fist at his disappearing mount. A horse, he decided, was a lot more trouble than it was worth—unless it was hitched to a New York hansom cab and a man could sit back and ride the cushions.

  He would find the mustang later. Right now he felt compelled to investigate the giants among the cottonwoods. He slipped a hand under his slicker and eased his .38 Smith & Wesson in the leather of its shoulder holster. The revolver would not stop a giant, but the feel of walnut and blued steel brought him a measure of comfort.

  McBride walked through the flame-streaked darkness toward the trees. Thunder rolled across the sky, rumbling like a monstrous boulder bowling along a marble hallway. The violent night seemed restless, on edge, waiting for things to happen, dreadful things like the deaths of men and the coming of a wind that would sing songs through the teeth of their grinning skulls.

  John McBride was no braver than any other man, and as he grew near to the cottonwoods, he felt a tightness in his throat and the familiar spike of fear deep in his belly.

  Here there be giants.…

  He remembered that. He’d seen it written in an old map one time. But the land of the giants had been in a distant, unexplored place. Cathay maybe. This was the New Mexico Territory where no Brobdingnagians dwelled. Or so he’d thought—until now.

  As he reached the first of the trees, the smell hit McBride like a fist, the syrupy, sickly sweet stench of something dead and rotting. From somewhere deeper in the cottonwoods, louder than the dragon hiss of the rain, he heard a steady creak…creak…creak, regular as the ticking of a railroad clock.

  Blinded by darkness, McBride stopped where he was. He fought down the urge to draw his gun. The giants ahead of him might be smelly and make strange noises, but they could be friendly. Swallowing hard, he walked through a tangle of brush into the trees.

  A flash of lightning told McBride all he needed to know.

  He had not seen giants. He had seen hanged men, strung up high, on a lofty limb of a cottonwood.

  The necks of the three men were bent at an impossible angle, pushed to one side by heavy, coiled knots. Death had not come easily or quickly to them. They had died slowly and in pain, strangling in the pitiless embrace of a hemp loop. The eyes of the men bulged, black tongues stuck out of their open mouths and the fear and outrage they’d felt at the manner of their dying was still twisted on faces that looked carved from white, blue-veined marble.

  Wind rustled through the cottonwoods, and the booted feet of the dead men swayed, setting the tree limb from which they hung to creaking. As lightning flared again, McBride saw the black beginnings of rot in their faces. They had been hanged a while back, several days probably, and the stink of death drifted through the air like a mist.

  Nailed to the trunk of the tree was a crudely lettered wooden sign. McBride walked around the dangling corpses and stood close to the crude placard. He thumbed a match, cupped the flame in his left hand and read the words. They were as merciless as the hangings had been.

 

 

 
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